To Love is to Create
by Riveting Red Pants
Summary: Valentine was in love-, no, entranced by this woman. She was his first love, his only love. Love teaches us lessons, what lesson did it teach Valentine?


**To Love is to Create**

Valentine leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest in a superior manner, his eyes counting the tiles on the ceiling as the lecturer droned on. _180 . . . 181 . . . 182 . . ._

There was a nudge on his arm, Lucian was elbowing him. He looked over at the boy, blue eyes and dark floppy brown hair that fell over his face like a catastrophe, he was all skin and bones and big, trusting eyes.

"What?" Valentine whispered, bored out of his mind.

"Do you see that girl?" Lucian murmured back. Valentine sat up and strained his neck.

"Jocelyn Fairchild?" He asked. Lucian nodded, his eyes dreamily glazed over.

"She's beautiful." Lucian whispered. Valentine observed her. He supposed she was, in fact, beautiful. She was tall, her elegant shadowhunter legs were tucked underneath her chair, and draped over them was a long flowing green skirt, made out of a soft airy fabric, her shirt was a dainty yellow button up, and her hair was half pinned up, leaving stray vibrant red curls to flow down her narrow back. She turned her face to whisper something to her friend, Madeline. She smiled and Valentine saw the corner of her mouth float upwards, her heavenly cheekbone and slender, perfectly arched nose captured in the sunlight from the windows.

"I _said _how does one keep a demon bound, Mr. Morgenstern?" Valentine's attention was snapped back to the front of the classroom, where the predictable lecturer was tapping one foot impatiently.

"By use of a pentagram of course." She looked satisfied and was about to continue on with her lecture, but Valentine had to interject, "The warlock that summoned you clearly failed in his use of one." The girl-, Jocelyn, giggled. He gave her a half smile and winked, a furious blush lit up her face. He remembered that blush when he was sitting in detention, thinking of how worth it was.

He hadn't been surprised when he'd asked her to the dance, and she'd said yes. When he'd arrived at the Fairchild's house, she had on a beautiful blue gown, her hair up in sparkling pins, small diamonds played at her ears and a delicate Fairchild ring winked at him from her slender artist's hands. He remembered not being able to breathe for a moment.

"What? Is something wrong?" she asked, a worried look cast about her features, her eyebrows went up in a way that made her forehead crinkle, just slightly, her large green eyes full of concern and edged with perfect red eyelashes.

"No," he cleared his throat. "No, nothing is wrong . . . you just look so stunning." She smiled, and he held out his hand to her. She took it. He could remember no greater elation in the world than having her hand in his. It was cold and small and fragile, he wanted nothing more than to protect this woman. They went to the dance, he whisked her along the dance floor with supreme elegance and grace, and they seemed to float around the room as if it were only them there, only them and no one else. Later that night he held her hand in his again as they walked through the glass city.

"Jocelyn I think . . ." he stammered, for once at a loss for words, at a loss for his usual tact. "I think I love you." She giggled, and put a graceful hand up to her mouth.

"We've only gone on one date, Val." He stepped closer to her in the moonlight.

"I know. But I feel like you're the only one who understands me. Everyone else looks at me, and they see a strong, confident young man. You, you see all of me. You see right through me. Everyone else looks at me, but you're the only one who really _sees_." She smiled and kissed his cheek.

"And I love what I see." She whispered. He turned his head slightly and kissed her on the mouth, just a soft, tentative brush of the lips. Shy and restrained. He held her, one hand around her waist and his other brushing her bare shoulder. She shivered and hummed against his lips, he could feel her lips smiling beneath his own.

He hadn't been surprised when, after proposing to her, she'd said yes. Sure they were young, but they were in love. And they were really and truly in love. When he looked at her he felt his heart skip a beat and then it felt as if all the love in his body poured out and flew right to her. When he got to hold her in his arms every night, he thanked whoever was out there. He thanked the angel, he thanked God. He breathed in the smell of her, the paint she loved so much mixed with some sweet perfume she always had on and a unique scent that was just her own. She smelled like comfort and love. He would brush the hair back off her head and whisper sweet nothings into her ear.

One day his wife-, he loved thinking of her as such, was painting in her studio, a large room with huge floor to ceiling windows that let in tons of natural light. She had her hair up in a messy bun, curls spilling out and escaping. She blew one back in frustration as she gripped the paint brush in her teeth and squeezed paint onto a palate with her hands. He stood in the doorway, just watching her. Watching the light catch her hair and spark off of it like flames. Watching her deft hands pick the brush from her lips and start to stroke it across the canvas. She looked up at him and grinned.

"Join me?" She asked. He felt taken aback. She had never asked before, and her art was of sacred stuff to her. He felt unsure of himself. Slowly he approached her and looked at the canvas she was painting. It was a portrait of them. He stood, strong and proud, wrapping his arms around her. His face was almost completely done, but hers wasn't yet. "Do you like it?" She asked him, looking up at him through her lashes as if worried about rejection. He wrapped his arms around her, just like he was in the painting.

"Of course I do. You're brilliant." He kissed her neck and squeezed her tightly, never wanting to let go.

"Help me paint. It's so easy to paint you; you're practically burned on the inside of my eyelids. Your silver white hair and your stunning dark eyes. But me . . . I can't seem to paint myself." He took a paintbrush, delicately and stroked the exact shade of red her hair was over the canvas. He painted for a while, her beside him, adding onto the background. When he was done he took a step back.

"My dear wife, I'm afraid I've ruined your painting." He said, laughing. She laughed along with him.

"No you haven't darling, you've tried. Besides, to love is to create." He looked at her, turning his head and raising a brow quizzically.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"I love you, so when I paint you, I paint my love for you on the canvas, and you've just done the same for me. Think about it Val, we love each other, so we've created this world, just for us. We love each other so . . ." She had set down her painting tools and put her empty hand against her belly. "We've created a life." He dropped the brush he was holding.

"Do you mean . . ."

"I'm pregnant Val." She announced, tears dusting along her lashes and making her eyes shimmer. He picked her up and held her, kissing her with all the love he had for her in his heart. He spun her around and, well by the angel, he cheered.

He had been surprised, when, on the day of the uprising, she did not stand by his side. The fighting broke out, chaos seemed to flow in the doors to the hall, he looked around and, as they always did, his eyes flew directly to her, and her to him. They stood there for a moment, the battle raging on around them, trapped in each other's gaze.

_Why have you done this? I love you._ His eyes seemed to ask her.

_I hate you._ Her eyes declared. He felt as if someone had torn his heart into pieces. With that one look from her eyes, once so full of love, so trusting, he felt his world shatter around him. Yes, of course his mission mattered to him, he was ordained by God to help this world. But Jocelyn, she mattered to him infinitely more. He hadn't even realized it until this moment, when this hate filled rage overcame her face.

_You were all I ever loved . . . all I ever wanted . . . _ He felt utter betrayal. He thought of a life without her, and could not. It was if the world had been in color, and now it was in black and white. Whatever he had envisioned of his future, she had been there. But now . . . now she was torn out of it. He drew a ragged breath and knew what he must do.

As he watched their home go up in demon fire, his son cradled in his arms, he thought of that day, not too long ago, standing in the studio with his wife.

_"To love is to create" _She'd said. As he watched everything in their life burn away to ashes, he thought to himself,

_No. Love is not creating. I loved her and she tore my life apart. She ruined everything I held dear. I gave her my heart and in return . . ._ He looked upon the smoldering ruins of their home_. In return she betrayed me. To love isn't to create. To love is to destroy. _He turned around and walked up the hill to the nearby manor house, hoping that the ashes left of what their life used to be would destroy her as much as she had destroyed him.


End file.
